The Honour of Dwarves
by Doc M
Summary: AU, after the Battle of 5 Armies. Thorin is back in the care of his own people, and fighting for his life, while Balin and Dís plan to make sure he still has a kingdom when he recovers...
1. The Blood-Debt

**1: The Blood-Debt**

The morning after the battle, a Dwarven woman reined in her pony beside one of the tents that sheltered among the ruins of Dale. She dismounted and, taking a bundle from her saddle-bag, strode purposefully towards the entrance.

A guard – a Man who, just a short time before, had carried a Hobbit into that very tent – barred her way.

"Stand aside," she said.

He did not move. Eyeing her up and down, he had a good idea what she might be. Her cloak and gown had once been fine, but were shabby and spattered more recently with mud and blood. With every movement, she jangled with jewellery. A strange, whiskery creature – surely some sort of camp-follower.

"I cannot," he said firmly.

"I was told the King Under the Mountain lies within."

"That's why you cannot enter."

"But I must." She was calm but insistent.

"And _I_ say you must not. He's hurt badly. It's not seemly for a woman of your sor–"

She pushed back her hood. Silver clasps gleamed in snaking plaits of grizzled black hair. Her face was drawn from weariness and grief, but still she bore herself straight-backed. "And what 'sort' would that be? It is not 'seemly' for _you_ to command the Daughter of Thráin Thrór's-son."

"Forgive me, my lady!" He bowed very low: she was, after all, over a foot shorter than he was. "I didn't think –"

"Evidently not. Now, I _must_ see my brother."

"He's dying, my lady."

"No." She did not raise her voice, but her eyes flashed. "_He is not_. He is _not_ dying: _I_ do not permit it. _Not him, too_."

The guard stared at her, shock mingling with pity.

"Now, let me see my brother. And that is an order, _not_ a request."

* * *

The gilded byrnie from the dragon's hoard, that, last night, had "gleamed like gold in a dying fire", lay bloody and broken on the ground. Beside it, notched and stained with the black blood of Orcs and Goblins, was the great war-axe of the Kings of Erebor.

Thorin Oakenshield lay propped up on a bed made from folded cloaks. He was making his peace with his friends: an extremely tall Grey Wizard, and a short, dazed-looking Hobbit, who knelt beside him. The king's face was wax-pale amid the dark tangle of his hair and beard. From waist to shoulders his body was roughly bound up with rags, now much blood-stained. Each breath came with pain, each word all the more so; but he would say what he needed to say.

"…Some courage and some wisdom, blended in measure." He broke off, coughing, his hand against his right breast, where the socket of an iron spearhead protruded through the dressings. After a pause, he resumed, his voice weaker: "If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world." He coughed again. "But sad or merry, I must leave it now. Farewell…"

A rustle of fabric, a jingle of metal.

A woman's voice: "You _must not_ leave it. You _will_ not. I forbid it."

Bilbo looked up. At the king's feet stood a Dwarven lady. He had never seen such a creature before, and no-one announced her, but her strong features, dark hair (and whiskers) and imperious manner rendered that formality unnecessary.

"Dís…" The wounded king forced a faint smile.

The tiny, hammered tin plaques that edged her gown clinked and chinked as she moved. She knelt beside him, facing the Hobbit. Firmly she grasped Thorin's hand. "You will _not_ die, brother. Not now. I have lost my sons – I will _not_ lose _you_. I will _not_ lose _everything_!"

"Your sons… the gold I should have valued most…" He coughed hard. Blood ran from his mouth into his beard. She wiped it with her fingers, which she then raised to her own lips, tasting the blood.

"My sons were a stronger shield for you than any oak-branch, Thráin's-son Thrór's-son. I will _not_ let it be in vain. You owe me that blood-debt, and I hold you to it!"

She turned to Gandalf, who towered above her, one arm in a sling. "What say you, Gandalf-Tharkûn? He shall live, shall he not?"

"My lady, his hurts _are _grave, but if he has the will to live... Otherwise, I don't know what further can be done."

"More in Erebor than in Dale, I think" she muttered as she investigated the field-dressings. "What care has he had this night?"

The Man answered. "Our healers cut two spears out of him, but his flesh won't sear with hot irons."

"Hmm." Her people's resistance to heat and fire was usually an advantage, but it meant that, to seal wounds, cauteries had to be hotter than any Man could bear. Small wonder he seemed to have lost so much blood…

"– And the one in the chest they daren't touch at all. He never made a sound – a wonder, being just a little fellow."

One of her eyebrows began to rise.

"I mean, it's not as if you folk are the stuff of heroes – smiths, tinkers, miners! Last night – that charge – well, that was a surprise! It's not as if anyone expects much of Dw…"

The Man's words trailed off as she fixed him with a look that Thorin himself would have had trouble matching even in health. Too tired to talk now (he had exhausted himself speaking with Bilbo), the king's eyes glimmered with a mixture of fury and amusement.

"Now," she said, "have you a flask of strong wine? Some boiled water? I brought clean linen and salves. I will do what is needed for now."

The guard, now feeling somewhat ashamed of himself, went off to bring the wine and water. Dís began to braid back her brother's hair, to keep it out of the way while she tended him.

Bilbo cleared his throat. "My lady… Did you say that – that Fíli and Kíli…?"

"They feast with their fathers."

The Hobbit put his head in his hands.

"Don't weep," she said, without obvious emotion. "They are happy."

"_Happy_?"

"Of course. They made a good end, that will be sung of as long as there are Dwarves to sing." She was speaking as much to give heart to Thorin as to Bilbo, but the latter felt chilled. No Hobbit mother would have spoken thus. "Their king lives because of them," she went on, "and he _will_ live and reign long."

"When did you arrive at Erebor?" Gandalf asked her.

"With Dáin's army. I rode to the Iron Hills to seek funds for our cause when the king and my sons left the Blue Mountains."

"I see."

"All night I tended the wounded who were carried within the Front Gate. My sons were brought in at dawn: I laid them out. Then I was told Beorn Skin-Changer had borne my brother, sore hurt, from the field. I came as soon as I could."

"It is well that you did, my lady."

"Indeed. But he has courage. Elvenkind may die for sorrow and self-pity, but we Khazâd would have died a thousand times already, were we so made."

She took off her cloak, and spread it on the ground. Upon it she unpacked the bundle she had brought: cloths – soft for cleansing and dressing, stronger linen for bandaging, some pieces of oiled silk – and a horn filled with a thick herbal paste.

"Kingsfoil, bloodwort and poppy, to soothe and heal. Óin was boiling it up by the cauldron last night – so many were hurt. I hope there's enough here."

"_Kingsfoil_?" Gandalf's curiosity was piqued. He knew the lore associated with it: that it was the Kings of Gondor who had knowledge of its best preparation, and whose touch gave its greatest power. Otherwise, it was a fairly weak herb used in popular remedies.

"The Kings of Men are not the only kings; Óin is of Durin's line," she said, spreading the salve on to the oiled silks with her dagger.

When the guard returned with both a flask of wine and a jug of boiled water, she set to work.

Gently, using the warm water, she eased the field dressings from her brother's body. Her mouth set in a thin line when she saw the ruin they had covered. Fewer hurts than this would have killed a Man or Hobbit outright. Warg claws had ripped through his byrnie, driving gilded links of mail through the clothing beneath, lacerating his chest and back. Swords had gashed deep into muscle. One spear had entirely transfixed his left shoulder: she dared not disturb the moss and cloth that now packed the wound. Another had torn his left flank to the ribs, fortunately without piercing them. The spearhead in his right lung would be better kept in place until he was in a surgeon's care, she thought.

Very tenderly, she bathed his wounds with wine, then applied the poultices, and bandaged them carefully but firmly in place. She padded the spearhead, to hold it steady and prevent further hurt, and positioned him with his good lung uppermost.

He scarcely groaned throughout, but his fingers clenched on the cloak that served as a blanket.

She kissed him lightly on the brow: a cold sweat lay on his skin.

"Easy, now," she said. "You've fed the ravens well by your hand: they'll not have you for their hero's portion. Nor will Dáin have our kingdom as his fief."

He tried to motion with his hands, in Iglishmêk: _No strength_.

"My sons have given you theirs. You will not be broken."

He grimaced – whether from physical pain, or grief, or both, she could not tell.

"You will heal. I'll make sure of it, as will cousin Óin – _at home in Erebor_," she said.

At the mention of Erebor, his eyes brightened.

"It may be dangerous to move him," Gandalf warned.

"And more dangerous not to. He needs a surgeon, one of our kind best of all, and this is hardly a fit place to try..."

"Yes, that is true."

Dís narrowed her eyes. She was unsure what to make of the wizard. She knew her brother had long been suspicious of him. Last night, she had heard much talk among his war-band of their recent dealings, and it was little to her liking. The Hobbit, too: whatever words of reconciliation she had heard as she entered, she knew about the Arkenstone's double theft. That was unfinished business. Still, it could wait for now: Thorin's life and health mattered most.

* * *

And so it was that the King Under the Mountain returned at last to Erebor – slowly and painfully, on a litter carried by the Men of Dale. His sister rode alongside on her pony. Gandalf and Bilbo followed.

The guard had been sent ahead to give notice of his approach. As the litter drew near the Front Gate, Dís saw the Dwarven forces lined up in welcome – but a grim silence fell upon them when they saw their king lying still, wrapped in bandages and blanketed in cloaks.

"They've brought him home to die," one muttered, in the accent of the Iron Hills.

"Ach, nonsense!" scoffed another – one of Thorin's own company. "'Twould take more than a few poxy Orc spears to kill that one!" He threw his battered old hat high into the air and began to sing:

"_The King beneath the mountains,  
The King of carven stone,  
The lord of silver fountains,  
Shall come into his own!_"

The surviving companions took up the song, and it spread through the Dwarven army:

_ "His crown shall be upholden,  
His harp shall be restrung,  
His halls shall echo golden,  
To songs of yore re-sung..._"

Thorin managed to raise his head and give a nod of acknowledgement.

At this the Dwarves cheered: "Long live the king!" Even Dáin Ironfoot joined in. But which king was _he_ cheering, wondered Balin Fundin's-son as he stood beside him...

_To be continued_


	2. Under the Mountain

**2: Under the Mountain**

The wounded king was carried deep within the mountain. Much of Erebor was, as yet, uninhabitable. Over a century of dragon-infestation and neglect had ruined many fine, rock-carved buildings that had survived Smaug's first onslaught. Since the King's Palace was burnt-out and derelict, he was brought to the Great Forge House, where the Chief Smiths had dwelt in a state little below that of the princes of Durin's line.

Dwalin and Gloín gently lifted Thorin from his litter on to a table, while candles and fires were kindled. Dís searched the stone storage-coffers for old, but clean, linens to make up the bed, in which no-one had lain for well over a century, and to furnish more dressings.

Since Oín was more physician and apothecary than surgeon, he had summoned Hogni Helgi's-son, who had come with the army of the Iron Hills, to help him. Hogni, though young and raised in exile, was of Erebor stock, and trustworthy. They had worked well together during the night, tending the casualties of the battle.

Meanwhile, Dwalin – who had taken command militarily of the survivors of the company –ordered Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Dori, Nori and Ori to take turns on guard duty. "Can't be too careful," he said, tapping his nose.

* * *

Bilbo sat on a broken wall outside the door. Gandalf had, as usual, gone off – this time, so he said, to talk to the Men and the Elves. He guessed what it might be about. Shame mingled with self-pity. The king had apologised to _him_, and yet…

He watched Dori and Ori – who were off-duty – playing King's-Table. Ori, who had brought his board and pieces with him, had explained the game to him on their journey: twelve warriors defending their king against a besieging force twice their number. The aptness of it had never seemed more bitter.

Bofur, unusually sombre and pensive, leaned in the archway, smoking his pipe. They had been friends. Now Bilbo groped for words.

It was the Dwarf who spoke first. "Fancy a smoke?"

The Hobbit shook his head. "No, no."

"'Tis a bad business, so it is."

"Yes."

"But Thorin'll be fine."

"You think so?"

"He _has_ to be, doesn't he? He can't _not_! I mean, after everything…"

And Bilbo realised that even Bofur's relentless optimism had its limits.

He nodded. "After everything, he deserves…"

The Dwarf sighed. "What he didn't deserve was to see the lads…"

"I know. Fíli and Kíli… I–I don't know what to say… It's terrible."

"'Tis that. Mind, I doubt they'd have it any different. Family, you see. Loyalty." He drew on his pipe. "It's a Dwarf thing."

Whether or not it was intended as such, it stung like a reproach.

They sat quietly for a few minutes. In the distance, from the direction of the Front Gate, they heard the sound of music in raucous celebration.

"Who's that?" asked Bilbo.

"It might be Men – it's too loud to be Elves. But I'm thinking it's more likely some of the Iron Hills lads. Dain likes a good party."

"Isn't that a bit… _thoughtless_?"

"Well, he fancies he's walked into another kingdom, like he walks into everything. Charmed life, that one. Killed an Orc chief in his first battle, when he was still a wee lad. He's been dining out on it ever since, up in the Iron Hills. They love him there, but..."

Bilbo caught the implications. Dain, for all his joviality, was no Thorin. He had not led a broken people; he had not shared their hardships through decades of exile. But if the worst befell Thorin, he would expect the loyalty of Erebor's Dwarves.

* * *

"Drink this," said Oín, holding an earthenware bowl to Thorin's lips.

It contained one of his herbal potions, as foul-smelling as his poultices – or Elvish food. The king tried to turn his head aside.

"It'll dull the pain while we take the blade out and get you stitched up: I daren't give you a sleeping draught. My brother and Dwalin will hold you down when needed."

He half-smiled, and drank a little. The taste was as bad as the stink: leaf-mould, he thought, like the undergrowth of Mirkwood… He remembered spiders, and the Elf-King's dungeon. He coughed up blood.

"Will you assist, my lady?" asked Oín.

Dís nodded. "Durin's blood all. It will be well," she said. She stroked his hair. His limbs began to feel heavy.

A young Dwarf – not much older than Fíli, and fair-haired as he had been – removed the dressings which Dís had applied that morning. Oín gently washed away the poultices, to get a clear view of what needed to be done. He and the young surgeon exchanged looks, wordlessly.

Thorin gestured to his sister: _Tell Dwalin and Gloín I am ready_.

Dwalin gave him his sword-belt to bite on. He clasped his sister's hand. She began to sing in a low voice one of the harsh songs of their people, punctuated by meaningless refrains that mimicked the sound of harp-strings. It was generations old, but she turned the words to his case:

_Thrain's-son Thror's-son,  
My mind's upon your story.  
On the field of Dale,  
There was need of you, brother._

Oín and Hogni set to work. They took out the packing of moss. They seared what needed searing, and stitched where stitching was needed, in his shoulder and side.

_On the field of Five Armies  
Your byrnie hacked to pieces.  
Your noble body's blood  
Upon the ground spreading._

They began to probe around the spearhead in his breast. The king's body tensed, his teeth clenched on the belt. Mercifully, the barb was narrow, and the angle indicated that the point was directed towards the edge of the lung.

_Your fair breast's blood  
Soaking through your linen.  
I myself was drinking it  
Till it choked my breath__._

Sweat dampened his hair and beard. His eyes were fixed on his sister's, lost in the song. He seemed to share in the trance of its rhythm.

_The spear was protruding  
From your noble body. _

Dwalin, standing behind him, gripped him by the shoulders – trying not to press on the freshly-sutured wounds. Gloín bore down upon his legs. Hogni drew out the blade. A stream of blood; a hiss of iron as Oín sealed it. His mouth filled with a hot, metallic taste.

_My debt is to the surgeon  
Who gave your hurts good tending._

Dís wiped the blood from his mouth and beard. Then, the wound was stitched and dressed, and he was washed. They laid him in a comfortable bed, with pillows supporting him on his right side. Oín made him drink a cup of honey tea. It was sweeter than the herbs he had given him earlier, and took away the tang of the blood. He gulped it down.

Exhaustion overtook him at last. He felt himself sinking into sleep, with Dís's triumphant words echoing through his head:

_You were a leader to our people  
Going up through unfamiliar land.  
You could not be broken  
Despite the bloodshed;  
You reddened the feet  
Of Carc's fledglings,  
My fine, noble lion,  
Of the line of Deathless Durin,  
Thrain's-son Thror's-son,  
Valiant and vigorous._

Oín nodded to himself, satisfied with his work. "Now Mahal may decide, or his own will. It may be some days before it's certain."

"He has a strong will," Dís said. "That will save him."

"Still, we need to act quickly," Balin said. "My lady – a word. Hogni, if you will watch the king, those of us who are of his kin need to talk."

The young surgeon bowed stiffly. "Yes, my lord."

Dís nodded. "I am of a mind for this, too."

* * *

The old councillor gestured to the others to join them in the adjacent antechamber.

He glanced about him warily, as if even the carved figures on the walls (bas-reliefs depicting great feats of smithing) might be eavesdropping, before beginning in a low voice: "While Thorin heals, his rights must be defended. We are his blood kin. It is our duty."

"Dain's closer kin than most of us," said Oín, "save for the Lady Dís." And he bowed to her.

"I've been much with Dain this morning. When he saw the king returned alive, he seemed…"

"Disappointed?" interjected Gloín.

"Perhaps not so open as that, but…" Balin was trying to be diplomatic. "Let's say I think he doesn't hope for the same outcome that we do."

"He _did_ bring his troops when summoned," said Dwalin.

"But _not_ for the quest. And few dare disobey the ravens."

"Aye," said Dís. "I travelled back to the Iron Hills with him, after Thorin met him, to try to convince him to give us aid. Oh, I was made welcome, with great hospitality – he's large-handed enough with gold and jewels and feasting – but in funds for the campaign, or men, he was stingy, until he knew from my brother that the dragon was dead, and even then… With my brother having but twelve companions, I fancy he thought he might yet arrive too late to save him from the Tall Folk, but in time for himself."

"At the very least he will aim to be regent, while Thorin lies on his sickbed. Oín, an honest answer: do you think he'll recover?"

"I'll not pretend it will be easy, but his wounds are clean now, and closed. He has a good chance, but it will take rest and time."

"And in that time, we may find it hard to rid ourselves of Dain. We've struggled for this for so long, but if we're not careful, he'll steal the kingdom from beneath our noses."

"Thorin won't stand for it," said Dwalin grimly.

"Dain brought five hundred axes. Near four hundred are still in fighting condition. We, brother, are now but ten. "

"That's not _quite_ true," said Dís. "And here lies our strength. Near four hundred, you say? Well, of those, I should reckon that at least a third are Erebor-bred. They came here under Dain's banner, but not to see this mountain under his rule."

"So what do you suggest?"

Balin stroked his white beard thoughtfully. "We outflank him: present him with a Council of Regency of all of Durin's line. He, of course, shall be a member, but no single voice can overrule the rest. It is understood, also, that this holds _only_ until Thorin is healed."

Dís agreed. "All of us here are of the blood of Durin. Between us, we can deal with all that's needed. Balin, I trust to your experience to lead such a council."

"And I thank you for your confidence. Gloín, would you be prepared to care for the finances of the kingdom, as you have for our quest?"

"I would, cousin. Inventory of the hoard, division of spoils, resources for rebuilding and resettlement!"

"Dwalin, military?"

He chuckled. "With pleasure, brother!"

"Aye. That will mean securing the allegiance of all the Erebor Dwarves in Dain's forces."

"I can do that."

"But – but _not_ using axes. Not _yet_, anyway."

"I'll get to work right away!" The big warrior bowed, and strode out.

"And Oín –"

"What was that?"

"Oín, I fancy you have enough to keep you busy with the king!"

"Aye, I do that! And it'll be worse when he starts to get better."

"Very true," Balin agreed. "He's a thrawn fellow at the best of times… I doubt he'll prove a patient patient."

"Which leaves me," said Dís, "to treat with the Tall Folk."

"It's not customary," Gloín said, "for a lady of rank to be seen in public, let alone sit in counsel…"

"Many things which were not customary before our exile have become so from necessity," advised Balin. "We can't go back to what _was_. Times change."

"Indeed," she said. "_You_ may keep _your_ wife and your sister out of sight in the Upper Storey, Gloín Groín's-son, but that has never been my brother's way. Through all our years of exile, I have supported him, openly. We have always been of one mind, and until he's well enough to speak for himself again, I shall speak for him."

"_The Elves_ may stand for that," Gloín warned, "as some of their womenfolk have power in counsel, but I doubt very much that the Men of Esgaroth and Dale will."

She folded her arms under her bosom. "Then they must learn to thole it. Until now we've played King's-Table with them: _now_ we play chess."

"And you think they would give _you_ the Arkenstone?"

"They _will_ – and I'll not go as a beggar to plead it from them."

"The archer who has it claims descent from King Girion," Balin said.

Dís forced a smile. "From what they used to say of Girion, so can half his fellow-townsfolk."

"He expects to be treated as Girion's lawful heir."

"He expects much," she said. "Praise for a lucky shot is one matter, but I fancy he's cut from the same cloth as our _dear_ cousin Dain. And now _he_ has the Arkenstone…"

"The Hobbit stole it," said Gloín.

"So I've heard. But I can deal with him, too, and Tharkûn the Wizard."

"Don't be too hard on the Hobbit," said Balin. "I fancy he knows he did wrong. Thorin had threatened to throw him from the Front Gate, which I think went rather too far, but…"

"Not far enough. I saw him in my brother's tent in Dale." She paused. "My brother asked _his_ forgiveness. It made me sick at heart."

"Your brother has not been himself, it's true," said Oín.

"I know," she answered. "And I know the nature of the illness. I know it was only made worse by the devices of Elves and Men, of Hobbits and Wizards. He would have recovered in his own time, but for them. Those who shamed him have much to answer for. Much."

* * *

Later, Dís leaned over Thorin's bed. He was in a deep sleep – a healing sleep, she hoped. His hair and beard, against the pallor of his skin, were like raven-wings amid snow. His chest, swathed in dressings, rose and fell more steadily than before. She laid a hand on his brow: there was no sign of fever, and the cold sweat of shock had left him.

"I think you're right, you know," Balin said.

She turned. "About what?"

"Thorin. He'll live."

"Of course he will: he's my brother."

"What I don't understand," said Hogni, "is why his byrnie didn't better withstand the blows. He was wearing so much, he shone like the sun!"

"It was _ceremonial_ armour," the lady replied. "It wasn't meant for the battlefield."

"But why –? I've heard there was mithril a-plenty in the hoard, and –"

"To regain his honour," said the old councillor sombrely.

"But it wasn't lost, was it? "

Dís's hands clenched into fists at her sides. "No. Never. Never. But it means so much to him that any slight…"

**_To Be Continued_**

* * *

**Note:** While the song in Chapter 1 was taken directly from _The Hobbit_, Dís's song is adapted from NicCòiseam's _A Mhic Iain 'ic Sheumais_, composed in 1601 for her foster-son, Donald John's-son James'-son MacDonald (d. after 1656), after defeating the MacLeods in the battle of Carinish. (This is said to be the last battle in Britain fought without firearms – only swords, bows, axes & c.). I recommend Kathleen MacInnes's recording of it. My sense of Dwarf culture is very much Norse/Gall-Gael, although their traditional seclusion of their women reminds me of Muscovite Russia (where beards were also valued!).


End file.
